


you cut through all the noise

by wellfourthings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Peter Hale, Established Relationship, Failed Proposal, M/M, Top Chris Argent, accidental proposal, assholes in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 11:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16932279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellfourthings/pseuds/wellfourthings
Summary: Peter's been failing to propose formonths.





	you cut through all the noise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arabwel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/gifts).



> This is an older story, and completely unbetaed. All mistakes are mine and mine alone, and I'm sure there are plenty.

The moment Peter finally cracks is ridiculous. Because it's a normal Wednesday, in November, and they aren't even doing anything special. It's not anyone's birthday, it's not their anniversary or a holiday. They might be drinking, but given that they've spent the last three days acting as the dual keepers of records for a pack full of werewolves who've been werewolves for all of ten minutes, relatively speaking, that's really only to be expected. This is the sort of thing that happens when you're resident damage control for a pack of barely legal supernatural creatures in a town that acts as a functional beacon for supernatural activity. There's always a next crisis, there's always something coming and it's been something near to seven years since they hit the reset button on the Nemeton, but the hits just never seem to stop coming. Nothing has ever been calm for more than three days, maybe five, a week, at an absolute stretch.n

It's ridiculous because it's the middle of the week and they're just sitting around on the sofa eating Chinese food and watching some stupid television show they've formed an unhealthy addiction to. There are takeout boxes everywhere and they were neck deep in an Emissary related clusterfuck not three hours ago. It's ridiculous because Peter has been trying to do this for months, and it just keeps not working because there's always another crisis they have to deal with. They weren't even supposed to be in Beacon Hills this week at all, they were supposed to be up in Sacramento again, making a deal with one of Chris' old contacts and setting up something of a network. Peter was going to try again this weekend, but then Lydia and Stiles walked into the supernatural equivalent of an international incident, and all hell broke loose, as per usual. It's ridiculous because Peter has been carrying the rings around in his pocket at all times for seven fucking months, and never getting far enough to actually ask in anything remotely approaching an appropriate manner. It's ridiculous because he went to the lengths of going two states away, to a specialisation shop in Seattle, just to get the rings custom made, with the silver and the fleur de lys, and all, and keep it secret. It's ridiculous because what finally pushes him over the edge is just that Chris says something funny and slightly snarky about the show, and one moment Peter is looking at him and thinking 'oh my god' and the next he's saying, "Would you just fucking marry me already?"

Then it gets worse, because Chris bursts out laughing at him.

So Peter is on his feet in a second, because this is beyond all reason, and he finally proposed (albeit badly and loudly and, frankly, rudely), and then Chris is laughing in his face.

Which is just about the moment that Chris' mouth falls open in shock, taking in the look on Peter's face, and he's barely managing to get out the words when he says, "Oh. ...OH. You're serious?"

Peter doesn't even dignify that with a response, just gives Chris a look.

Chris quirks up an eyebrow and asks, "You do realise that this is the equivalent of those people who say things like, 'hey, if you're not busy on Saturday, do you wanna, you know, marry me, maybe?'"

"No. No, it isn't. Not at all. I've been trying to ask you this for months. Months, you absolute prick," is Peter's indignant response. There's a beat before he adds, "Like that last time we were in Sacramento, the time with the thing we had to go fetch from that sketchy guy you swore was an old contact and beyond reliable."

Chris' whole body goes impossibly still, and then, "Tuttle Lake, that day that you... but..."

"Yes, then too. And San Francisco, and Vancouver, and Cinco de Mayo, and right before all hell broke loose in Cabo, in August."

"So when we were in Colorado Springs for that weekend...?"

"Seven Falls? Then too, yes. I would also like to inform you that you are, apparently, a complete fucking moron, and I don't even know why I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

Then Chris seems to come to a sudden realisation, "Wait, so this is how you decide to do it, over television and takeout?"

At which point Peter just stares at him, for a full minute before he decides that he's entirely done with this entire nonsensical, illogical disaster, and takes the box out of his pocket, where he's been carrying it around with him for too damned long, and tosses it in Chris' lap.

Chris was about to continue, but the ring box lands in his lap just before he starts to speak again, and instead, he opens the box. He stares at the contents for a moment before slowly pulling one of the rings free and turning it over and over in his fingers. They aren't anything flashy or overt, because that would never suit them. Instead, they're just solid silver bands, and engraved on the inside of each, where the ring would rest against the underside of their fingers, is the Argent fleur de lys, resting against the complex knot that guards the entrance to the Hale vault, and graced the front of Peter's safe. Chris slides the tip of his index finger over the engraving, finally looking back up at Peter.

Peter just shrugs, as if it doesn't really mean what it does, and says, "Months, okay. Months, Argent."

Chris tilts his head to one side and asks, out of mild curiosity, "How many months?" and "Was it more than six months?"

"It was more than six months," In reality, it was almost exactly seven, but telling Chris that would give away the whole game.

Not that it really matters, because Chris realises anyway, and says, "So that week that you disappeared and refused to tell anyone where you were going, then?"

Peter gives a stiff nod, and just says, "Seattle."

"Well... fuck."

"You thought I was finally having a breakdown, off going rogue, as I recall."

"I might have thought you were running, at most. Don't over-dramatise it, Hale."

"You suck the fun out of everything," Peter says.

"Why do you want this, then?" Chris asks, gesturing towards the box in his lap.

"I've been asking myself that frequently, you absolute bastard," Peter says.

"Were you going to ask me, then, properly?" Chris asks.

"I'm not getting down on one knee, or reciting poetry, or serenading you, or asking your father for your hand, Argent. I refuse to make a spectacle of this. You should know me better than that, after this long." Peter says.

"Of course I know better. Although the look on Gerard's face would be worth it, honestly." Chris points out.

Peter finally cracks a smile and admits, "Alright, you have a point, the mental image is entertaining."

"You didn't answer the question," Chris says.

"Which question?"

"You know which question, asshole. Why would you want this? You said you'd been asking yourself the question. What did you come up with?" Chris asks.

"You really are a bastard, you know that?" Peter asks in return.

"I don't lose sleep over it," Chris replies.

Peter shakes his head at that, and then says, "That's why."

Chris laughs out, "You want to marry me because being a bastard doesn't keep me up at night?"

"Well, yes. More or less. It's been five years, Argent. Five. It's been at least somewhat stable for the last three. We made a decent team, even then, you know. Despite my nephew and McCall and their pack full of misfit toys all making their best efforts to be their own destruction. You know that you're an absolute bastard, and you don't care, and everyone knows that I am. Yet, somehow, against all possible odds, and despite hell raining down on our heads what seems like every other week, this is where we find ourselves at the end of the day. Takeout and guilty pleasure television on a Wednesday after whatever this week's crisis is. This is something that works, nevermind that I can't wrap my head around why. At least, it's something that works for us."

"That was... almost like feelings. You planning on waxing poetic to me, Hale?" Chris asks.

"Oh, shut up, please," Peter says.

"You actually want to get married because we've fallen into a routine of being assholes together? That's the reason? Really?" Chris says, incredulously.

"I prefer to call it existing in a perpetual state of mutual compromise, actually," Peter says.

"You're making it sound like this was always where we were going to end up, you know," Chris says.

"You know I don't believe in that sort of thing. But if I did... maybe we just took the long way around. It doesn't matter what you want to call it, this is where we ended up, okay? After all of the nonsensical bullshit, we work together. Granted, the first couple of years were a grudging and uneasy alliance for the sake of keeping this town from becoming a scorched and smouldering disaster area in the wake of what seems to be every damned supernatural creature with their ears on flocking to the Nemeton, but I attribute that to situationally induced stress. Though, now I might be reconsidering."

"Shut up, come over here, and sit back down," Chris says.

Peter quirks an eyebrow but reclaims his place on the sofa anyway, as Chris finally slides the ring back in beside the other, and sets the closed box aside.

"A comfortable routine isn't exactly basis for vows, you know," he says.

"Argent, if it were about the routine, I would happily just go and find my own. Quit."

"How else do you expect me to react?" Chris asks.

"Something other than this, at least," Peter huffs.

"I don't want to marry you," Chris pauses, and Peter stiffens at once, "No, stop that, let me finish."

Peter doesn't relax, so Chris just sighs as he continues, "I don't want to marry you because we found some sort of stable medium. I've done that before. I won't get married out of comfort or necessity or stability. That's not... It's not where I want to be."

Peter is just glaring at him for a moment, and then he wraps a hand around the back of Chris' neck and tugs him forward until  
he can press their lips tightly together. He pulls back after a moment, just to do it again, over and over, until Chris has the fingers of both his hands buried, tangled in Peter's hair and they're very nearly in one another's laps. He doesn't pull away until Chris is biting at his bottom lip and they're both just slightly out of breath and there are fingers trailing up and down his spine. Even then he pulls back only enough to rest their foreheads against one another and breathes out, "Does that feel like a stable medium, or necessity, or any of the rest, to you? Because it doesn't to me. The last thing this has ever been for is comfort," into the few inches of air between them.

Chris doesn't speak, just shakes his head.

Peter continues in barely audible tones, "I don't want to do this because we're comfortable, or because we have a routine. I can't think of a single moment that this has ever been simple, or easy, much less comfortable. I want you to marry me because I was in the middle of the damned market one night and it hit me that despite the fact that you make me completely insane, piss me off beyond all reason, and take absolutely every opportunity to provoke me, I can't imagine a single moment of my life in the future where you aren't there, mocking me and prodding me until I snap and pushing me into abrupt realisations of solutions about whatever our horror of the week is. Less that I can't imagine them, even, than that I don't want to. I was standing in an aisle, just getting the groceries, holding a loaf of wheat bread in one hand and sourdough in the other, and I realised that I can't imagine it, and I don't want to live my life without you and your annoying habits in it."

"Was that the night that you forgot the wine and the-"

"Yes that was the night that I forgot the wine and ice and the goddamned olive oil, would you please stop that and at least try to stay on point, here? You've been deflecting for a half hour, Christophe." Peter says.

"You really must be serious," Chris says.

"You're just getting that now?" Peter asks.

"Well, you hardly ever call me that."

"You're hardly ever this impossible." Peter huffs.

"What was it you just said about my annoying habits?" Chris asks.

"Oh, would you just shut up and answer?"

"Choose one, I can't do both," Chris says.

"God damn it, Argent, why are you making this so difficult?" Peter asks.

"Mainly because it's amusing. But also because I haven't heard a real question, yet." Chris says.

"Argent, would you just stop fucking around and shut up and marry me already? Fuck," Peter is exasperated.

"Well not with that attitude, no," Chris says.

"I have no idea why I want to spend the rest of my life with you, you impossible asshole, but since it seems that I do, would you please be serious for seven seconds, and," Peter pauses to reach for and open the box, "do me the favour of giving me an answer before you drive me completely insane?"

"You know, given your reluctance to actually ask, some people might question whether or not you actually want to spend your life with me." Chris needles.

Peter closes his eyes and huffs out a frustrated sigh, but when he opens them again, he presses the open ring box into Chris' hands and finally breathes out, "Christophe Argent, even if I'm not entirely sure how or when it happened, I would rather like to be your husband. Would you please do me the favour of marrying me?"

There's finally a serious moment between them, while Chris cocks his head to the side and says, "I think I just might."

"I think that's the closest I'm going to get to a straight answer out of you."

"Okay, okay," Chris pauses, "Yes, Peter. Yes, I will marry you."

"You are absolutely impossible."

"Well, as long as we don't-"

"Oh for fuck's sake, what now?" Peter asks.

"I was thinking that I'll marry you as long as we never have to break into the Vatican again," Chris says.

"...Yes. That I agree with. We are never doing that again. We should make a list."

"Right now?" Chris asks.

"Definitely not what I had in mind," Peter says

"Oh? And what did you have in mind instead?"

"Well right at this moment, I'm considering attempting to drink myself into a stupor, however futile an effort it may be," Peter says.

"Really? The first thing you want to do after proposing is completely fail to get drunk? That's a fantastic way to start out, isn't it."

"You were unaccountably difficult," Peter says.

"You were expecting me not to be?" Chris asks.

"You have a point there." Peter concedes.

"So, what now?" Chris asks.

"You are a public menace, Argent."

"No, I think you're confusing you with me again."

"I'm really not," Peter says.

"Are you saying you aren't a public menace?" Chris asks.

"No, I'm saying that-" Peter cuts himself off in favour of pulling the ring box from Chris' fingers, setting it aside, and yanking Chris himself back into his lap.

"I really think you should have planned this bet-umph" Chris is abruptly broken off by Peter's lips against his, tongue tracing along his bottom lip.

"This is why no one lets you make the plans, you kno-" Chris tries, only to be cut off again by Peter scraping teeth lightly across his collarbone and pulling him even closer.

"Are you going to let me finish any sentences for the rest of the night?" Chris gets out.

"You finished that one," Peter replies, promptly burying his face in the side of Chris' neck.

Chris almost tries again but interrupts himself before he even gets a word out, because Peter chooses that moment to tug at an earlobe with his teeth. He gives up entirely and pulls back just enough to rearrange them so he's straddling Peter's lap and at least has his full range of motion.

Peter is chuckling into his ear and Chris is grinning right up until he manages to turn enough to kiss him and swallow the sound.

He should know better than to bite playfully at Peter's bottom lip because he knows how that ends, but he does it anyway, and Peter is growling lowly and the next moment they've gone from casual and teasing to very much not playing around in the space of a breath.

Peter has both hands at Chris' hips, pulling him flush against him until they couldn't be pressed together any tighter and stay vertical, and suddenly his fingers and mouth seem to be everywhere at once and it shouldn't be working for them at all, really, because the television is still on and their food is still on the coffee table and neither one of them has even had a shower since the thing with Morell's old friend, and they're in a position that should be impossible for two men in their forties to manage, supernatural aspects notwithstanding.

Somehow, though, it really couldn't be working for them any more, because Peter has managed to sneak one of his hands under the back of Chris' shirt and is dragging blunt nails up and down the line of his spine and Chris can't help arching into it, which is making his neck an entirely too enticing target for Peter to ignore.

The way Chris reacts when Peter bites has never managed to lose any of its appeal, all breathless and almost whimpering. It makes Peter want to do it again, over and over, blunt teeth scraping over Chris' throat, dragging over his pulse point. He doesn't, though. He has this belief he knows is silly, that if It becomes normal, it will lose all impact. 

Chris drags his own teeth across Peter's collarbone, working open the button on his jeans with one hand, giving them some direction. With a final roll of his hips, he slides off Peter's lap, reluctantly, to reach for the table off to the left, and almost falls off the sofa entirely in the effort, leaving them both chuckling softly as he catches himself on his hands.

All but living together has its perks – like lube stashed in a side table for occasions just like this. It makes it so much more convenient to get Peter out of his jeans and open him up on two fingers, then three, and then drag it out until Peter is panting at him and asking for it, until he's far enough gone not to even care what sounds are slipping from between his lips. Chris didn't have to push it that far, but it's worth it for the sounds Peter does make as he thrusts slowly inside. 

That's its own kind of revelation, every time. It doesn't matter than they end up right here, almost every night, it never stops being just like this, punching all the air out of both of them, dragging them down into something that's all sensation and no thought whatsoever. 

The sofa wasn't the best choice for this, but they aren't moving into the bedroom, not now, not when he's buried deep inside Peter, and Peter is meeting every movement of Chris' hips with his own. He wouldn't move them now for anything. Not least because the rhythm they've found is delicious, a slow, steady drag that is maddening, all on its own.

"Chris... harder," Peter whispers.

Chris shakes his head and keeps his hips slow.

Peter groans, trying to push back, but getting stopped by Chris' hands at his waist.

"You're a bastard," Peter says.

"You already knew that," Chris replies, still fucking into him with slow, thorough movements. 

He'll get all of this back the next time Peter is on top and decides to torment him in retaliation. Probably with room to spare. Chris shivers slightly at just the thought. 

It's always drawn out and bordering on too much, and it's always worth it, every time, when Chris is wrung out and shuddering, too far gone to care what it looks like. 

Here and now, though, he's determined to make Peter come, just like this, on long, drugging thrusts alone. He knows he's getting close, he can feel it, and Peter has stopped trying to make him thrust harder, now. He's just leaning into it, meeting Chris' pace, head hanging back and just taking what Chris gives him. It's all Chris can do at this point to keep his thrusts steady, drag his cock over Peter's prostate on  
every last one, until Peter is shaking from it and coming over their stomachs, clenching down hard around Chris, tight enough that he's dragging Chris down with him, with just that last thrust before he's lost, too. 

They stay like that for longer than is comfortable, panting into each other's mouths, slowly coming back to themselves, before Chris pulls out as carefully as he can, falling back against the arm of the sofa, still slightly out of breath. 

Peter lets his head drop back onto the sofa beneath him, eyes falling closed.

"Where was that on your list of things to do after?" Chris asks.

Peter pulls a throw pillow from where they've mostly fallen on the floor and tosses it at Chris' head, by way of an answer.

Chris lets it hit him, chuckling.

Peter is reaching for another, and this could very easily turn into a lazy pillow fight. 

Chris leans forward and pulls Peter up by the back of his neck to kiss him soundly, pulling away only far enough to lean into him, after.

They stay that way, leaning into each other in the middle of the sofa, breathing each other's air, just being there, until both their phones spring to life with jarring, high pitched tones. They exchange a frustrated but unsurprised look, and both reach to answer.

There's always a next crisis.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr.](https://wellfourthings.tumblr.com)


End file.
